


Hold On

by inkandpaperqwerty



Series: The Best of Kansas [5]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Arguing, Bobby Singer Deals With Idjits, Conflict, Conflict Resolution, Dean Winchester Needs Therapy, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Demon Deals, Episode: s05e19 Hammer of the Gods, Family, Family Don't End in Blood, Family Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealous Spencer Reid, Monster Hunter Spencer Reid, References to Criminal Minds Episode L.D.S.K., Spencer Reid Needs to Use His Words, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperqwerty/pseuds/inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Tensions are running high, and it's not necessarily because the Apocalypse is at hand. Resolving conflict isn't the specialty of any Winchester, including the honorary ones, but if they're going to take down the literal Devil, they're going to have to start working through some stuff. Either that, or hope that Lucifer is vulnerable to dirty looks, trust issues, and snappy remarks.





	Hold On

“So, are you gonna stand there all night, or do you plan on saying something eventually?” Dean didn’t bother to look over his shoulder before speaking. He knew it was Castiel, and even if it wasn’t, his statement stood.

“Maybe I didn’t intend to talk. Maybe I only came out here because I don’t trust you not to run off and find Michael.” Yeah. It was definitely Castiel, and by the not-even-remotely-veiled anger in his voice, he was still miffed about the whole ‘Whore of Babylon’ incident and everything that came immediately after it.

“Right.” Dean tilted his bottle and let the beer wash down his throat. Not that it would help; the four that came before it certainly hadn’t. “You know, you’re lucky Poindexter showed up when he did.”

“And _why_ is that?” Castiel’s voice teetered on the edge of a sigh, patronizing.

“I was gonna escape. It wouldn’t have been hard.” Dean let a smirk curl his lips, and he brought the brew to his lips again. He stopped—because it really _wasn’t_ helping—and set the bottle down on the porch railing, uttering a sigh of his own. “But you got lucky.”

“How? It isn’t as if you’ve changed your mind.” Castiel spoke with a fervor in his voice Dean hadn’t heard in a while, white-hot anger burning beneath the smooth, rich tones. “You’re still set on submitting to Michael, on letting him use you to tear the world apart.”

Dean smirked again, snorting out a bitter laugh, and he shook his head. “Yeah, that’s the goal here.” Sarcastic. Dismissive. Familiar.

Safe, in its own, twisted way.

So what if Dean pushed his best friend away? It was down to the wire, and the more Dean disappointed his family, the easier it would be for them to let him go.

Dean startled when he was grabbed by the shoulders, a rush of color flooding his field of vision before he found himself looking at Castiel. Dean kept his lips twisted into a faint smirk, bitter amusement tainting his own features as he examined the sharp lines and jarring shades of blue in Castiel’s.

“I rebelled for this? So you could turn around and submit to them?” Castiel grabbed Dean by the shirt and pressed him back against the railing, fists shaking, eyes blazing. “I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?”

Dean smirked some more, a cynical curl of his lips, and nodded a few times. “Right. Right, because… after _everything_ you did, I still owe you. Right.” He snorted and shook his head. “We wouldn’t even _be_ in this mess if it weren’t for you and your brothers. And you shouldn’t have rebelled for _me,_ you should have rebelled because you were standing up for what was right.”

Castiel didn’t respond right away, but the flare in his temper was clear in his eyes. “You, on the other hand, get to do what you want, regardless of right and wrong.”

Dean smacked Castiel’s hands away from his shirt, which Castiel thankfully allowed him to do. “Look, man, it’s like I said to Sam. He’s gonna say yes to Lucifer, and when he does, someone has to be there to stop him. How is that _not_ right?”

“You don’t know that Sam will say yes,” Castiel countered.

A hard laugh punched its way out of Dean’s throat, misty eyes rolling skyward as he turned back around to lean on the porch railing. “Yeah, I do.” He exhaled slowly. “I mean, for a while there, I thought he was just in a bad place, but after our field trip to Heaven…” He shrugged, pretending his eyes hadn’t begun to burn. “I don’t know if he was ever who I thought he was.”

“You’re blaming Sam for this?” Castiel’s voice came from directly behind Dean, his tone sharp and angry. “You’re going to give in to Michael and let two archangels turn the world to dust because Sam let you down?”

Dean put his face in his hands and rubbed hard, growling in frustration. “It isn’t _like_ that, Cas. It’s not about Sam letting me down, it’s about me not believing he can make the right choice.”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a moment, and his tone had dropped a few notes by the time he replied. “Well, unlike Sam, you’re actively saying you’re going to comply with your archangel, and Sam hasn’t given up on _you_ yet. I have no idea _why,_ but he hasn’t.” He paused, and Dean could hear him breathing hard. “You have given Sam just as many reasons to give up on you, and yet—”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Sam!” Dean slammed his hands down on the railing and whirled around, winding up nose-to-nose with Castiel. “I don’t know how to deal with being used as a tool, and I don’t know how to handle my brother choosing a _demon_ over me. I don’t know how to deal with the idea that not a _single_ one of my brother’s most treasured memories has me in it. I don’t turn to, to, to an addiction to cope, I just ignore it, and you know—” he scoffed, throwing his arms wide and pointing to himself, “—there’s only so many things I can—”

Dean rubbed his face again, ignoring the fact that his hands came away wet. “You gave everything? I _lost_ everything! I begged you to side with us, but it was ultimately _your_ choice!” He was yelling—he was yelling louder than he had in a long time—and Castiel was just standing there, staring, wide-eyed and speechless. “I lost my parents, I lost my childhood, I lost my innocence, my mind, my humanity, my ability to sleep at night—you name it, I lost it! I lost my brother again and again and _again_ , and nobody _asked_ me, nobody _begged_ me, they _made_ me. I never had a choice, and if I’ve gotta spend my whole life as someone else’s puppet in some, some _greater plan_ , then I should at least be allowed the option of being brain dead for it!”

For a moment, there was nothing but heavy breathing and a night wind rustling through the trees. Castiel looked at Dean, the shock in his features slowly melting into a profound sadness, and Dean heaved a sigh.

“Spencer was right.” Dean shrugged. “I’m tired and angry, and I just want it to be over.” He sighed again, an invisible weight settling on his shoulders. “I know it’s not right, and I know I’m making excuses, but… I don’t care, Cas. I really don’t.” He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, turning around and leaning on the railing again.

Dean looked down at the ground and saw his beer bottle, realizing he must have knocked it down with all his gesturing. He wished he had it back, if only to do something with his hands.

“I just want it to be over,” Dean whispered, shaking his head. “Sorry, Cas. I know I let you down. I haven’t been the friend I should have been.” He folded his arms on the banister and lowered his head to rest on top, heaving a sigh. “But I’m tired of being lied to… and used… and…” He swallowed a sob, covering up the noise with a clearing of his throat. “I have always done my best, done the right thing, done… whatever I had to, man, and I just… can’t I do what I want?” His lips twisted, one hand coming up to cover the odd spasms as tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “Just once, can’t I do my worst? Can’t I do the, the wrong, stupid, selfish thing? Just—” Dean slammed his fist down on the railing, relishing the burning, tingling pain that flashed across the surface of his skin. “Can’t I just be weak this time?”

For several seconds, there was silence. There was a full moon in the sky, but darkness circled the porch and its old, flickering lights, as if waiting for the moment the bulb would fail so it could surge up to the walls. Cool air rustled through the trees, drying the tears Dean hadn’t quite managed to stop.

Castiel moved a little closer, his footsteps thudding right before the railing creaked from his weight being added to it. His jacket rustled, and then he placed his hand over the mark he had left on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean lifted his head and shifted his arms, putting his hand over Castiel’s and pressing it into his skin. He tried to go back, tried to recall that moment in Hell, when the darkness gave way to blinding, bluish-white light. He tried to summon that feeling of being terrified of the unknown, but so glad he wasn’t in the darkness anymore; so relieved to feel his sick and twisted desires receding under the assault of something… good. Something holy. Something righteous.

“I raised you from perdition once, Dean.” Castiel’s voice lacked any of its earlier anger, the rumbling baritone bringing familiar comfort. “I can do it again, if you’ll let me.”

Dean bit his lip and shook his head. “That’s not fair to you.”

“None of this is fair to anyone. I still want to help you.” Castiel gave the arm a squeeze. “I did rebel for you, Dean, but you’re right. It was still my choice, and I shouldn’t hold you responsible for that.”

Dean only shook his head again and stared out into the night, the breeze chilling the tears on his cheeks. “You shouldn’t have rebelled for me. That has to be the stupidest reason to support a cause in existence.”

“I disagree.” Castiel was silent for a second. “I might not like the consequences, but that doesn’t mean I regret my choice, and it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t make it again in a heartbeat if you asked.” He squeezed Dean’s arm slightly. “I’m not alone in that stance, either. Sam and Bobby… Ellen, Jo… Spencer…” He exhaled slowly. “You offered comfort to Spencer one time over a year ago, and now he’s here trying to fight the Apocalypse with you. You inspire people to follow you, Dean. You’re worth following. You’re worth saving.”

Dean dropped his head onto his arms again, slowly breathing out. “You’re all idiots.”

“Perhaps. But I would rather be Dean Winchester’s idiot than anyone else’s genius.” There was a smile in Castiel’s voice when he spoke again. “Yet another belief I am not alone in.”

Dean shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t very well talk a bunch of idiots out of being idiots if that was what they truly wanted. And if the thought of people still having faith in him, even after his mistakes, made his chest a little lighter… well, there was nothing wrong with that. There was nothing wrong with being moved, with wondering what he had ever done to deserve the family he had been given. There was nothing wrong with gripping Castiel’s hand and letting a few tears fall.

Not that he did, but if he had, there would have been nothing wrong with it.

* * *

“So, just to be clear, do we _have_ an actual plan?” Dean folded his arms over his chest, scanning one of Spencer’s whiteboards with a crinkled brow. “I mean, there are all these things we _could_ try, and there are things we’re working on, but have we actually made a plan?”

Sam looked up from the book he was reading with a heavy sigh. “Not… uh, not really.” He rubbed his forehead, frustrated and embarrassed by his lack of an answer. “Spencer and I have been working on a way to contain him, at the very least.”

Dean pursed his lips, eyebrows lifting, and he leaned against one of the desks along the wall. “We could make a cage topside?”

“That’s the idea.” Spencer replied in Sam’s stead, skimming the book in front of him with his usual speed. “It would need to be maintained constantly, because it wouldn’t be nearly as strong as the original, and it would be more physical than metaphysical, making it more susceptible—”

“But it could hold him.” Dean looked between Sam and Spencer expectantly. “Right?”

Sam chewed on his lip, glanced at Bobby, who was behind his desk, and then at Spencer before looking back at Dean. “Theoretically. I mean, no one’s ever tried to do this before.”

Dean waved that off, disinterested. “Yeah, I get it. This is the Apocalypse. No one’s ever done any of this before. Ever. You don’t have to talk like a lawyer avoiding a promise.”

Sam gave him a dirty look, though it was a little less intimidating when his eyes were underlined with dark bags. “ _Theoretically,_ we would need a physical location with a physical cage. We would need time to get the entire area and the cage warded, and some of those wards would need to be updated regularly. After that, of course, we would… somehow… have to get Lucifer in it.”

“That’s assum—”

Dean startled and pushed off the desk, whirling around on the spot. “Dangit, Cas! Don’t do that.”

Castiel blinked in confusion, standing there with a steaming cup of coffee. “Uh, sorry.” He didn’t seem to know what he was apologizing for, but he was genuine nonetheless. “That’s assuming you have enough… _mojo_ to power the warding. Sigils have to be drawn in blood because there is a certain power—a lifeforce, if you will—in blood that the sigil needs in order to operate. Something advanced and powerful enough to hold Lucifer will have to be powered by something much stronger than blood.”

Bobby arched a brow. “Such as…?”

“Oh, I have no idea. As Sam said, this has never been done before.” Castiel stared back at Bobby with wide, owlish eyes and took a sip of his coffee.

“Great.” Dean rubbed his face and continued to mumble under his breath. No actual sentences, just bits and pieces of frustrated phrases and swear words he figured would get his exasperated emotion across.

Sam had the nerve to snicker at him.

Dean rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “Bobby, you gonna keep helping with the ward work? Or do you wanna help me sniff out a location for this _theoretical_ bad boy?”

Bobby rolled his wheelchair back and started to maneuver around his cluttered desk toward Dean. “My eyes could use a break from Enochian, Greek, and Latin.”

“And Arabic.” Spencer blew his bangs out of his eyes. “Can’t forget the Arabic.”

Sam snorted, but his smile said it was good-natured enough. “I don’t even want to hear it. You finish a book in the time it takes me to finish a chapter.” 

“Hey, that doesn’t mean—ah!” Spencer lurched forward suddenly, clutching his right arm and pressing it to his stomach. “What the—?”

Dean was in full protector mode before he even realized what was happening, rushing to the couch and grabbing Spencer by the shoulder. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

Spencer didn’t reject the touch, but he didn’t offer any explanation either, staring at his arm in a confused sort of daze.

“Poind—”

“Oh!” Spencer snapped out of it—whatever ‘it’ was—and cast a frantic look around the room. “I need something sharp. Quick!”

Dean once again acted without thinking, withdrawing and handing over his pocketknife. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Xal.” Spencer cut his arm in an out-of-the-way place with a rushed explanation. “I added this clause to our deal—” he smeared the blood across tattoo painted on his palm, “—where the mark burns until I summon him if he needs a quick escape route.”

Dean didn’t process much beyond, ‘It’s Xal,’ alarm bells ringing in his head even as the tattoo started to glow. It was too late to prevent the summoning, but Dean could still do his job and protect everyone in the room. “Where’s he gonna sh—”

Dean was interrupted by Xal collapsing on the living room floor, coughing up a mouthful of blood. He looked worse for the wear, but a demon was a demon, and Xal was too close for comfort; Dean wasted no time in grabbing Xal by his arm and the back of his shirt.

“Get off me!” Xal twisted in Dean’s hands, and there was something disconcertingly panicked about his voice. “Get off!”

“Xal, calm down.” Spencer stood up and moved a little closer, but Dean forced him back with a glare and a subtle headshake. “You’re okay, Xal. I got you out.”

Dean hauled Xal up onto his knees and maintained a iron grip, but there was really no point in trying to subdue him. Xal was too busy coughing up another mouthful of blood and falling back against Dean for support to be thinking about attacking.

“Castiel?” Spencer looked at the angel hopefully. “Could you heal him up a little?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, looking more prepared to smite than anything, and Dean could see the objection coming up his throat.

“Just enough that he’s coherent?” Spencer clasped his hands together and increased his puppy eyes to a Sammy-level strength. “It could be important.”

Castiel glared a bit more, regarding Xal with burning disdain, but he eventually approached.

Dean kept both hands on Xal, crouched down behind him and alternating between holding him in place and keeping him from falling down into his own, bloody spit-up.

Xal panted and heaved, flinching away from Castiel’s outstretched hand, but he didn’t seem to have anything left in the way of resistance—physical or verbal.

Castiel made contact, and Dean could feel Xal shifting slightly, reorienting himself with his surroundings.

“Xal?” Spencer prodded, moving a little closer than Dean would have liked.

Dean also would have liked Bobby to wheel back behind his desk, and he would have liked Sam to at least be on his feet, ready for a fight, instead of sitting on the couch. But Dean didn’t often get what he wanted, so he settled for containing the threat to the best of his ability.

Xal swallowed and turned his head toward Spencer’s voice slightly. “Something… happened...”

Bobby snorted. “No kidding.”

Spencer crouched down on the floor next to Dean, scanning Xal’s eyes like he was looking for something.

Dean felt a twist deep in his gut, a blend of panic and anger washing over him as he realized had had another brother infatuated with demon. Not in the same way, maybe, but there was too much trust, too much vulnerability.

_Why can’t they just…?_

Dean didn’t have the words to finish his thought, and he wasn’t given the chance anyway, because Xal started speaking again.

“It was… it was weird, there was weird activity. But…” Xal squinted, gray eyes unfocused and surrounded by red instead of white. “It didn’t seem… necessarily _bad_ … but then the pagans showed up.”

“Pagans?” Sam and Spencer echoed in unison.

Xal gave a sideways sort of nod, wheezing as he struggled to breathe, seemingly unaware of Dean’s hands on him. “You know, gods and goddesses from other religions… more, uh—”  he coughed violently, “—more like tulpas, if you ask me…”

Dean frowned and looked to the intellectuals for help, but they both seemed surprised, so he shifted his gaze to Castiel, who gave a slight nod.

“They exist. They aren’t exceptionally powerful by angelic standards, but…” Castiel tilted his head to one side and then the other. “Well, our standards aren’t always the best scale to work with.”

Xal wet his lips, and Dean caught a glimpse of bloody teeth behind skin that had been bitten clean through. “It was weird, but… they weren’t doing anything… it was just, just a meeting or something… in this… this hotel, restaurant… _thing…_ ” He shook his head, coughing again, and Dean could hear his chest rattling. “But, uh, but then Gabriel showed up—”

“Gabriel?” It was Castiel’s turn to echo.

Xal nodded breathlessly and pressed on. “Went by Loki. They started fighting… I think they found out he’s an archangel. I… I don’t know, I wasn’t in the meeting room, I was, uh, I was talking to, to—the fast guy, um, the Greek one—”

“Hermes?” Bobby offered.

Xal nodded again. “Yeah. Him.” He coughed. “I was trying to… figure out what was going on, but then Lucifer showed up…”

“Lucifer?” Everyone but Dean echoed that.

“Let him finish, for crying out loud!” Dean gave them a hard look and then shook Xal a couple times, both to intimidate and to keep him coherent. “Go on. Finish.”

“I—I don’t know why he was there. I don’t know if—if he thought the pagans were a threat, or if he—if he knew about Gabriel, I—I don’t know. Nobody saw him coming. He was just— _there._ I tried to run, but he wasn’t alone, and uh, I don’t know, three? Four? I couldn’t count. I couldn’t see. I don’t know.” Xal shook his head, exhausted, slumped on the floor. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. It hurt, and I blacked out, and that’s all I remember…”

Spencer sighed softly and grabbed Xal’s free arm. “Help me get him on the couch.”

“Poindexter—”

“Dean, please, just… help me get him on the couch?” Spencer looked at Dean hopefully, and there was a defeated kind of fatigue in his eyes Dean knew all too well.

Dean pressed his lips together and shifted his hold to get a better grip. “Sure.”

They hauled Xal off the floor and deposited him on the half of the couch Spencer had previously occupied. Spencer crouched down in front of the sofa and gave Xal’s arm a squeeze.

“Hey.” Spencer waited until Xal opened his eyes to continue. “Where did this happen?”

Xal blinked sluggishly. “Uh… off the I-90… some… Elysian Fields Hotel… but I don’t know if that was the real name… it might not have been a real place at all, it was… freakin’ trippy… Mercury did something to whole…” He waved his hand idly, eyes fluttering shut.

Dean hovered over the two out of instinct, ready to pull Spencer away at a moment’s notice, but he let his gaze shift over to Sam. “Well? Do we have anything to use against Lucifer now?”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably, a pinched expression drawing his brows together. “If there is anyone who has a chance of beating Lucifer… Gabriel would be it.”

“Wait, you mean straight up killing him?” Dean looked between Sam and Castiel. “No cage necessary?”

Castiel hesitated. “Possibly. I don’t—”

“Well, then we gotta help him.” Dean looked down at Xal. “Where on the I-90 were you?”

“It wasss…” Xal’s head bobbed as he dozed again.

“Hey!” Dean gave him a shove, ignoring the look Spencer sent his way. “Where were you?”

“W’yoming,” the demon slurred. “There’s a… stretch from… Gillette to… to something. I passed Gillette.”

“Buffalo.” Spencer supplied, nodding his understanding. “If you passed Gillette and hit an open stretch, then you were driving west, and you would have hit Buffalo next.”

Xal nodded tiredly and dropped his head again. If Dean had any inclination whatsoever to sympathize with demons, he would have felt for the kid; he was in rough shape.

Spencer didn’t seem to notice—ironic, considering he was the one with the soft spot—but simply massaged his forehead with a sigh. “Xal, that’s 69.7 miles of open road.”

Dean looked at Spencer, head tilting as confusion contorted his features. “Why do you know that? Just… why?”

“Shut up, Dean. Just be grateful I do.” Spencer huffed, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. “ _Anyway,_ my point is that there’s no way we can locate the hotel and travel there before the fight is over.”

“I could fly to the general area and attempt to locate anomalies.” Castiel pressed his lips together briefly. “I couldn’t take anyone with me, though. Not while cut off from Heaven.”

“Wait.” Sam shook his head, confused. “Weren’t you cut off from Heaven when you transported us back in time?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, though he didn’t say anything. Apparently, they had forgotten that part of the update when Spencer showed up after the Whore of Babylon incident.

“Yes, but we needed a spell, as we would in this case, and we don’t have time—”

Sam waved it off. “Forget it. If it’s that hard, it might drain you like the time travel did, especially if you took more than two of us along.”

Castiel blinked. “Well, yes. But—”

“But nothing,” Dean interrupted. “It’s not an option.”

Spencer nodded in agreement. “Even if you could guarantee you would survive the trip, we would have no way to hide you while we were in the hotel.”

Bobby moved in Dean’s peripherals, rolling over to the desk he had abandoned with a grunt. “We were looking at summoning rituals for archangels…” he hummed as he sifted through the papers, “…trying to figure out a way to get Lucifer where we want him when we want him to be there.”

Sam perked up at that. “You think we can summon Gabriel?”

“If I can find the book the spell is in, yeah,” Bobby grumbled, leafing through his notes.

Spencer glanced upward and thought about it for all of five seconds before he pointed to the bookshelf in the corner. “Four up, seven in, page 178.”

Bobby chuckled to himself as Castiel went to retrieve the tome. “Love that photographic memory.”

“ _Eidetic_.” From the look on Spencer’s face, he had explained the concept several times to no avail.

Castiel pulled the book from the shelf and began flipping through the pages. “If this is like the spell Dean and I used with Raphael, we shouldn’t need any additional items… though we did have the advantage of a vessel that time.”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t occupying _another_ vessel, he was in Heaven.” Dean shrugged. “We don’t need a place to put Gabriel, we just need to move him from where he already is. We don’t need a trap like last time, either; Gabriel should be pretty happy to see us, so—”

Castiel interrupted him with the first line of the incantation, causing everyone to move back and make more space in the center of the study.

Dean glanced over his shoulder to check on Xal, not liking how quiet he had been, but there was no sign of scheming. Xal was still and pale, blood trickling sluggishly down his upper lip, and his chest was eerily unmoving.

Dean put a hand in front of Xal’s mouth, waiting a few seconds and feeling a faint breath on his fingers. _Still alive._ Dean didn’t know whether or not to be disappointed, so he left the issue alone and turned his attention back to the summoning.

Castiel finished the ritual and glanced at the center of the living room. Several seconds passed in silence, but nothing happened. Castiel took another look at the book.

“Could he be…?” Sam looked around the room, letting the question hang for a moment. “I mean, if he tried to fight Lucifer…”

Bobby crinkled his nose. “Didn’t you just talk to him last month? He seemed pretty set on staying away from the fight.”

“Maybe Lucifer cornered him?” Spencer suggested, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

“I can try the spell again,” Castiel suggested, glancing over the words. “There are a few modifications I could make to the Enochian. I could try and make it—”

“I’ll go see what’s up.”

Dean’s head snapped back around to look at Xal. “Woah, hold up.”

But Xal was already pushing himself into an upright position, gritting his teeth through the obvious pain. “I remember where he was.” He could barely keep his eyes open, looking just as dead as he had thirty seconds earlier. “I’ll look for him.”

Spencer and Dean both grabbed onto Xal’s arms as he tried to stand.

“Xal, that’s not a good idea,” Spencer said, a note of worry in his voice.

“You’re not gonna do anybody any good like this,” Dean added, his own tone a little sharper.

Xal gave him an irritated look eerily similar to the ones Sam often used. “You got a better plan? Gabriel’s—” he suppressed the urge to cough, but Dean heard it anyway, “—our best weapon against Lucifer. We have to know what happened to him.”

Dean couldn’t come up with an argument against that, so he snapped out an unrelated question instead. “Why do you even care about stopping Lucifer, huh? This isn’t part of your deal.”

“I have my reasons,” was Xal’s growled reply.

“Xal—” Spencer was interrupted by a deadly glare from the demon in question.

“I can’t die from injuries like this,” thankfully, because blood was trickling down his chin again, “and I’ll stay hidden.”

Spencer opened his mouth to object again, but then Castiel spoke up.

“I’ll go with him.”

Xal turned his head slightly and glared in Castiel’s direction, swallowing another cough as he examined his potential teammate. “To help or to kill me?”

Castiel glared in return, his stature tense and more imposing than usual. “To accomplish a mutual goal.”

Xal and Castiel stared each other down for a few more seconds, and then Dean’s hands were empty. Castiel disappeared immediately afterward, and in a matter of seconds, the room went from six occupants to four.

“Well.” Bobby snorted. “That was eventful.”

Dean looked down at his hands, bloodstained from Xal’s shirt and arms, and he turned an arched eyebrow to Spencer. “You wanna explain what’s up with you having a pet gremlin?”

Spencer looked up at Dean, silent at first, and then he started to nod. “Uh… yeah.” He cleared his throat, an unreadable but decidedly unhappy expression crossing his features. “Yeah, I can explain.” He picked himself up from the floor and started toward the kitchen. “Let me get some cleaning products for the carpet and couch, and then I’ll tell you the… story, I guess. It’ll be more like laying out a case file or evidence, but…” He shrugged and left the rest of his sentence unsaid.

Sam nodded slightly and gestured toward the kitchen. “Cleaning stuff is by—”

Spencer laughed, already walking. “I know where the cleaning stuff is, Sam. I stay here all the time.”

Dean glanced at Bobby, a brief flicker of jealousy burning through his chest at the fond smile tugging on Bobby’s lips. Dean often forgot that Bobby helped a lot of hunters, and he more often forgot that the same fatherly instinct that made Bobby care about Sam and Dean was bound to make him care about other young men in similar situations.

It was fine, of course. Spencer deserved a family, too, but even the closest of siblings grew jealous of each other from time to time. Dean was no exception.

Spencer returned with carpet and upholstery cleaner as well as a roll of paper towels. He got to work spraying the floor while Sam took the cleaner and started on the couch, and then he began to tell his tale.

“I was trying to gather information on the Apocalypse. I figured the best way to do that was to get an informant from Hell.” Spencer began to scrub the floor a little, spraying the spot again and sitting back on his haunches to let the cleaner soak in. “When Sam told me that Ruby possessed someone on the verge of death as a way of showing Sam she was willing to play by moral rules—”

Dean refused to react to that. He saw Sam look his way and wince, and he was still too angry to plaster on a reassuring smile, but he didn’t want to react and make anything worse.

“—I got Garcia to help me search for near-death experiences in a week-long window immediately after the Hell Gate opened.” Spencer started to move his hands as he spoke, the tips of his fingers touching in that bizarre way they often did, like he was pinching the air. “That list was thousands of names long, so I started to narrow it down based on characteristics. I had her disregard any incidents where spiritual elements or an afterlife were reported, my theory being that demons wouldn’t want to give credibility to any kind of religion. They want people to sell their souls when they need supernatural help, not rely on higher powers. I excluded any reports of negative experiences for the same reason.”

Dean pursed his lips and nodded. “They don’t want people to be afraid of contracts.”

It made sense enough, even if it did seem like a weird way to hunt for demons, so Dean let Spencer continue without interruption. Bobby and Sam were satisfied as well, the latter soaking up the mess on the couch in silence.

“Garcia looked for demonic activity and then cross-refenced that with the new list of names. That slimmed it down more, but I still had a lot, so I picked the ones closest to the Hell Gate and took a closer look. If it turned out to be a demon, I captured and interrogated it, and if it couldn’t give me what I wanted, I exorcised it. I never hit the same jurisdiction twice, which made things a little difficult, but I stayed inside the state of Wyoming so the FBI wouldn’t get involved.”

Dean had to smirk a little at that. Spencer _would_ think of all the little legal bits that would lead to him getting tracked. Not that Sam and Dean didn’t know the basics—don’t leave fingerprints, don’t let the cameras see your face, and so on—but there were ins and outs of federal law that came so naturally to Spencer, he didn’t even realize how clever he was being. Dean never thought to check what _jurisdiction_ he was in. He stopped at city and state.

“I started gathering information about the kind of demon who could serve as an informant. I started asking about different kinds of bonds and deals, the demonic food chain, the different powers available…” Spencer rolled his hand to indicate the list went on, and then he stopped. “Oh! I forgot about the floor.” He grabbed a paper towel and got back to actually cleaning, still talking and occasionally gesturing with one hand while the other continued to work. “It went on like that for a little while, which got me new parameters, and that eventually led me to Adam Stallworth.”

Dean arched his eyebrow, arms folding over his chest out of habit and maybe a little suspicion. “Who?”

Spencer sighed in irritation and gave Dean a look _._ “I’m getting there.”

Dean was really tired of getting those looks from people. “Then start talking, Poindexter.”

Spencer got back to cleaning with another sigh. “Adam Stallworth was in a bad car accident the day after the Hell Gate opened. He was on life support for four days, he had almost no chance of waking up, and even if he did, he would have been in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. So, the family opted to take him off life support. But,” Spencer stood up with a handful of dirty paper towels, “right before they did, he woke up, fully functioning.”

Dean nodded slowly, making brief eye contact with Sam, who was also gathering his used paper towels. He turned to Bobby while Sam and Spencer finished cleaning up, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Kid’s a natural.” Even if he was a little too trusting for Dean’s tastes.

Bobby snorted. “You got no idea.” He shook his head. “He worries me, though; more than you an’ Sam.”

Dean felt another swell of jealousy but shoved it down. “Really?”

“He doesn’t know how to fight like you boys do, he doesn’t have the background or experience, and he hunts alone.” Bobby shook his head again, lips pressed together. “It’s not that I don’t think he does a good job, I just…”

“Yeah.” Dean let out a chuckle and nodded his head, jealousy quickly fading into a sense of contentment and pride. “Sam and I talked about that. If we can ever find the time, I wanna teach him a little hand-to-hand.”

“So.” Spencer reentered the room before Bobby could say anything, Sam on his heels. “I started researching and shadowing Adam.” He eased himself onto the arm of the couch, leaving the dry cushion for Sam. “When I was confident Adam—well, Xal, but I didn’t have that name yet—could make the deal I wanted and would be willing to cooperate, I cornered him and forced his hand.”

Sam frowned slightly—Dean frowned a lot—and shook his head in confusion. “How did you know he would cooperate?”

“I didn’t. But it was highly probable.” Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “It was a matter of analyzing his behavior and determining what his goals were. I determined that he didn’t want the Apocalypse to happen, among other things, and it convinced me to give him a shot.”

Bobby arched a brow, one eye squinted with confusion. “And how exactly did you _determine_ that?”

Spencer looked between them, hesitating, and he took a deep breath. “I don’t really… think it’s appropriate to share the details… but I can assure you, I did extensive research.”

Dean’s face twisted into something like disgusted confusion. “You don’t think it’s _appropriate?_ This is the freakin’ Apocalypse, man. We can’t have secrets. You just lectured us about that, what, a month ago?”

Spencer nodded understandingly, but his resolution didn’t waver. “I know that. I do, but…” He paused, tried to start, stopped, and then started again. “It isn’t about keeping secrets, Dean. It’s not like I’m avoiding conflict because I think you’ll disagree—I mean, you probably will, but that’s not the point—it’s just…” He stopped again, took a breath, and slowly started forming words. “I profiled… emotional behavior… in Xal. You know, things that couldn’t be faked, things he did when he thought no one was watching, and those things… they’re weaknesses for him, and they’re embarrassing, and—”

“I don’t give a crap what a demon finds _embarrassing_ , Spencer. Okay? He’s a demon.” Dean was raising his voice, and part of him felt bad, but part of him wondered why he was the only one yelling. “If it’s a weakness, that’s all the more reason to tell us. We might need that, and you might not be available when we do.”

“No, Dean.” Spencer shook his head, and there was something almost… judgmental in his eyes, something that stung, something that rubbed Dean the wrong way. “I know how to maintain objectivity when working a case, and I’ll admit there are areas where I’ve consciously set that aside because Xal is, for lack of a better word, my friend, but I haven’t forgotten how to profile. You know that I’m good at what I do. You don’t need to know the ins and outs of Xal’s personality and lifestyle.” He spread his hands slightly, gesturing to the group. “None of us knows that kind of detail about each other.”

“Spencer…” Sam spoke hesitantly, but Dean could tell from the look on his face that he was siding with Dean. “I get where you’re coming from, but… even if it’s about his past, he’s part of our present. I mean, Dean’s right. It’s the Apocalypse. We trust you, but… we need to be able to trust Xal, too, at least to some extent.”

Spencer looked at Sam, hurt and frustration mingling in his eyes. “Why can’t you trust me? Why isn’t that enough?”

Dean cut back in, anger swelling as his fuse burned down. “Because trust is a two-way street, and we can’t trust you on Xal if you can’t trust us with information _about_ Xal.”

Spencer stood up, growing just as agitated as Dean. “I told you more about Xal than any of you ever told me about Castiel! You never told me why you decided to trust him again after he betrayed you. You just said he’s a good guy now and left it at that, and I let that be enough.”

“Castiel betrayed Heaven, which has a pretty hefty price!” Dean shot back.

“So he says,” Spencer retorted.

“He’s been cut off from his family, his powers are depleted—”

“That’s what he tells and shows you, something he has full control over.” Spencer crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you I investigated Xal; I told you I saw things he did when no one was watching. Have you ever done that with Castiel? And if you did, have you ever told me? Have you ever thought about how his so-called conversion didn’t stop the Apocalypse? Sam still opened the Cage in the end, and Castiel’s one _supposed_ good-faith act automatically secured him a place on your team, with access to your information.”

Dean couldn’t even speak, his blood was boiling so hot. His vision blurred as he struggled to keep his breathing steady, fists trembling at his sides.

Sam spoke in Dean’s stead, spreading his hands with an incredulous tone and expression. “Why would Castiel be mad at Dean for almost saying ‘yes’ to Michael if he was still working for Heaven?”

Spencer simply threw his hands up, his voice rising in pitch. “Why did he tell you not to drink blood when that was exactly what Heaven wanted?” He raised his eyebrows and looked between the three occupants of the room, waiting for an answer but receiving none.

Dean grit his teeth. “Castiel is _not_ a traitor. He’s our friend.”

“Supposedly,” Spencer snapped back, hazel eyes blazing.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Dean yelled, reaching out to grab Spencer’s shirt.

Spencer flinched back—he didn’t seem to notice, but Dean did—and shouted back louder. “Exactly, Dean! Exactly!”

Dean stopped torn between confusion and discomfort. Why would Spencer flinch away from him like that? More importantly, what was he getting at? Did he think Castiel was a traitor or not?

Spencer swallowed hard and pointed to the floor between them, the gesture serving no purpose other than the accentuation of certain words. “I _don’t_ know what I’m talking about. I know what I can see, and I know what I’ve been told, but I don’t _know_ Castiel. I don’t know about the private conversations you’ve had, the parts of himself he’s revealed to you, the times he’s been vulnerable in front of you.” He softened his voice slightly, looking only at Dean, staring him down unwaveringly and yet… there was a desperation in his eyes; a desire for Dean to understand him. “I don’t know any of that, but I know you, and I know you aren’t stupid; none of you are. So, I trust Castiel. I trust that you’ve seen something I haven’t. I don’t need you to tell me all of Castiel’s deepest, darkest secrets for me to feel comfortable around him because I trust you.” Spencer huffed out a soft laugh and shook his head, still staring into Dean’s eyes. “I got paid to help the most elite profiling team in the FBI analyze psychopaths and get inside their heads, and you can’t trust me to be right about Xal?” He looked at Sam and Bobby then, a blend of hurt and disappointment pervading his tone. “None of you?”

Dean swallowed, significantly calmed by the knowledge that Spencer wasn’t trying to accuse Castiel of anything, and he tried to react as non-aggressively as possible. “Sam’s smart, too, Poindexter. He was tricked. It happens, okay? We just want to be sure.”

“Sam was _vulnerable_.” Spencer’s brow was creased with something like disbelief, but there was anger flickering in his normally soft, honey-brown hues. “Have you seriously not figured that out yet? That the only reason Ruby was able to manipulate Sam is because he was already compromised? You left him—”

“Spencer.” Sam spoke softly, rising to his feet and reaching for the both of them.

“—and when you came back, you didn’t even bother to ask how he managed to survive without you.” Spencer was speaking faster, and louder, and his eyes were starting to water. “As if you’re the only one who would sell his soul for his brother.”

“Spencer, it’s okay.” Sam put a hand on each of their arms, trying to push them away from each other.

Dean stood still, not reacting, shell-shocked by the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

“You wanted him to be grateful for you abandoning him. Do you have any idea what he went through? Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to be on your own like that?”

Dean bristled at the last question, pushing against Sam’s hand as he stepped forward. “Yeah, actually, I know _exactly_ how terrifying it is, and I spent almost my entire life making sure Sam _didn’t_ feel that way. So don’t you _dare_ tell me—”

“He _needed_ you, and you were gone!”

“Spencer,” Sam pushed them apart again. “This isn’t your place. If I have a problem—”

Spencer all but sneered at Sam, lips pulling back as he spat out an angry, “You’ll what? Talk to him? Right. He never listens to you, and if he doesn’t like what you have to say, he shuts you down, and you _let_ him.”

Dean threw his arms out in the most fed-up way he could. “What is your _deal,_ man? Why is it you always have an issue with me?”

“Dean—”

“Because Sam acts like you walk on water when you don’t even deserve to _be_ an older brother!”

Dean froze as if he had been slapped. There was a split second of silence, and then he lunged forward, stopping only because of Sam’s hand on his chest.

“Dean, stop! Spencer!” Sam managed to stay in between them and turned to look at Spencer, dropping his voice to a deadly level he didn’t often use. “Go take a walk. _Now.”_

Spencer glared, breathing heavily, and looked at Dean with lips already moving.

“Now!” Sam threw his finger out to point in the direction of the front door.

Sam threw his finger out, and even with the rage and doubt swirling through Dean’s gut, cutting into his chest and sucking the air out of his lungs, he still caught Spencer’s flinch.

But it happened in a fraction of a second, and then Spencer turned on his heel and stormed out. Sam slowly lowered his arm and turned to Dean, his mouth already open and ready to talk.

Dean shoved Sam’s hand off his chest and pivoted, headed for the back door.

“Dean…”

“Let ‘im go, Sam. And don’t go after Spencer. They need some space.”

Dean let the door slam shut behind him, anger burning through his veins, self-doubt churning in his gut, confusion clouding his brain.

He needed to shoot something. _Now._

* * *

“Front sight, pull trigger, follow through.”

Dean startled—just a stiffening of the shoulders; he never let himself truly jump with a gun in his hands—and he lowered the weapon slightly. He didn’t turn around. He could easily identify the voice as Spencer, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to talk to Spencer just yet.

“Hotch said that a lot when he was tutoring me for my firearms qualification test.”

Dean heard the approaching footsteps and lifted the weapon again, aiming at the cans in the distance. He fired, the gunshot echoing back from the mountains in the distance. Just like it had with the last thirty-eight cans he shot.

“I failed my test anyway. We had a case, wound up in a hostage situation, and Hotch had pretend to hate my guts so we could get the drop on the unsub.”

“Pretend?” Dean snorted, and he didn’t care if it was spiteful. He fired the gun again with almost no thought, not needing to consciously aim despite his only light being the full moon. “Must not have taken much acting.”

Spencer didn’t speak for a moment, but when he did, he simply continued his story, his voice quiet. “Hotch had to beat me up—kick me so I could get his gun from his ankle holster without the unsub noticing—and once I had the gun, I took the shot.” Shuffling footsteps, and Spencer’s voice was a little closer; it sounded faintly hoarse. “Later that night, Hotch asked if he had hurt me. I said… ‘Hotch, I was a twelve-year-old child prodigy in a Las Vegas public high school. You kick like a nine-year-old girl.’”

Dean had to snort at that, but then he aimed and fired again, shooting the can off the post. He took a steadying breath and got his lips back into a straight line. “What’d he say?”

“Don’t remember. We probably just laughed. But that’s not the point.” Shuffling, but the voice didn’t come closer, so Spencer must have been kicking the dust or fidgeting in place. “The point is, I was a twelve-year-old child prodigy in a Las Vegas public high school. I got beaten up on a regular basis, and I had to deal with it alone. My dad walked out when I was ten, and half of the time, when I came home all bruised and bloody, Mom was having an episode. She couldn’t help; she didn’t even know what was going on.” He inhaled shakily, and his clothing rustled—if Dean knew Spencer, and he was pretty sure he did, Spencer had just put his hands in his pockets.

“I wanted a big brother so badly.”

Dean lowered the gun slightly, but he still refused to look away from the targets, a tightness spreading through his chest. He wet his lips, sliding his thumb along the handle. If Spencer was trying to make him feel guilty…

“I daydreamed about it. I _literally_ dreamed about it.” Spencer chuckled weakly. “And I had this idea in my head of what a big brother should be. And of course, like all fantasies, the brother in my head was perfect.” He stopped for a second, sniffed, and inhaled. “Uh, when I met Morgan, we were just coworkers, you know? There was a professional barrier. No expectation going into the relationship. We got where we got slowly, and it all panned out.” Spencer cleared his throat. “But I, uh… I relate to Sam. I’m a lot like him. And we’re friends, not coworkers. This isn’t professional at all. You get… sucked into the family dynamic pretty quickly.”

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat, trying to recall his earlier conversation with Castiel as he reengaged the safety on his gun. He tried to hang on to his sense of self-worth, damaged through it was, as he set the pistol on the barrel where he had been putting his ammo.

Dean braced himself for whatever argument would follow. “Spencer—”

“Dean, I think you’re amazing.”

Dean stopped, surprised and confused by the sudden statement. Spencer wasn’t trying to guilty Dean, he wasn’t trying to start another fight, he wasn’t insisting he was right, he… thought Dean was amazing?

“But you’re not perfect. And I look at you, and I hold you to this unrealistic standard I came up with when I was ten, and you can’t meet that. And I tell myself it’s because nobody’s perfect, but then I tell myself, ‘Morgan wouldn’t have done that,’ and then I lash out.” Spencer started sniffing in between the phrases, speaking faster. “And that’s not fair, and this isn’t an excuse, and I’m gonna fix it, I just… I don’t want you to think…” Spencer struggled with his words—not so much finding them as saying them without his voice breaking—and he took a shaky breath. “I don’t want _you_ to think that _I_ don’t think the world of you. Because I do. I don’t want you to be perfect. And I don’t want you to be Morgan. And I’m sorry. Because…” He cleared his throat, sniffed, and started again. “Because I’ve been really self-righteous. Ever since I got here, even when I was right, and I didn’t have to be such a jerk about it, but I was, and there’s no excuse for that, and I know this has been just as hard for you as it’s been for Sam, and I keep looking for a fight, and I never should have said what I said about you not deserving to be a brother, and…”

Dean turned toward Spencer and took in his glassy, red-rimmed eyes and splotchy complexion with the trained eyes of an older sibling. Dean had spent the past hour desperately trying to keep himself from spiraling into the pit of self-loathing, trying to come up with reasons to justify all he had said and done… and Spencer hadn’t even been mad. Not really. He’d been hurt. Maybe even a little scared. Anger was just the emotion that came out.

Dean understood that better than anyone.

“And I…I’m just sorry. Because you didn’t deserve that. And I hope…” Spencer looked down, sniffing again, nervously rubbing his hands on his pants, “…maybe… you can forgive me?”

Dean snorted and held out an arm, motioning for Spencer to move in for a hug. “Can I forgive you. What kind of stupid question is that?”

Spencer hesitated at first, but once his shoulder brushed against Dean’s outstretched hand, he rushed in and grabbed Dean in a tight embrace.

Dean staggered back with a soft laugh. “Easy, easy.” He wrapped his other arm around and pat Spencer’s back a few times. “It’s okay, kid.”

Spencer eased out of the hug and shook his head, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he sniffed again. “No, it isn’t. But I’ll work on it.”

“Hey.” Dean grabbed Spencer’s upper arm. “You just got finished telling me perfection is an unrealistic standard.” Dean squeezed the limb and let his hand drop back down. “You’re not the only one screwing up lately, and none of us are gonna change overnight. Plus, we’re all kind of insanely stressed out right now, so…”

Spencer smiled a little, but then he pressed his lips together and nodded sharply, averting his eyes. He didn’t look like he was ready to let himself off the hook so easily.

_Yup. Definitely a Winchester._

“So,” Dean slapped Spencer on the arm, trying to lighten the atmosphere with a change of subject. “You said you took the shot.” He arched a brow. “What happened?”

Spencer smiled lightly. “Hit him right between the eyes.” His smile broadened a bit. “It got easier to train after that. Instead of practicing because I had to pass a test, I practiced with the hostages we had saved in mind.”

Dean pursed his lips and nodded, picking the gun back up and opening the chamber. “So, you’re a pretty good shot.” He slipped the bullets in as he spoke. “You wanna show me?”

Spencer shrugged his shoulders, glanced around, and then shrugged again. “I mean, sure. If you wanna watch, then… yeah, I’ll hit a few targets.”

Dean snapped the chamber shut and handed the pistol to Spencer, taking a step back and gesturing toward the range in a ‘by all means,’ kind of way.

Spencer flashed a quick smile and scoped out the targets. He lifted the gun, pulled the hammer back, and fired. He wasted no time in doing it again, and then a third time, then a forth, fifth, sixth…

He didn’t miss one.

Dean nodded his approval. If the pistol had been automatic, Spencer would have hit eight targets in less than a minute. Dean, of course, could do it faster… with a manual… but Dean had trained a lot longer and lot differently than Spencer.

“You know, Sammy and I were talking…” Dean gathered up the loose bullets while Spencer emptied the gun of its spent shells, “…about me teaching you a little hand-to-hand. What do you think?”

Spencer didn’t say anything, which prompted Dean to look up from the ammo he was gathering. He found a broad smile on Spencer’s face, his joy almost infectious, despite the lingering evidence of tears.

“I would really, really like that, Dean.”

Dean looked at him for another second, smiled, and then got back to what he was doing. “Good. ‘Cause, uh, it wasn’t really up to you.” He grabbed his bag from the ground and put the box of ammo in. “If you’re gonna be a hunter, you gotta know more than marksmanship and salt rings.”

Spencer was still smiling, an almost dopey look on his face, and he obediently dropped the empty gun into the bag Dean held out to him. “Understood.”

Dean zipped it shut and tossed it over one shoulder. “Hey, Pointexter—”

“Dean!” Sam called from the house, his voice echoing back and forth across the range. “Castiel and Xal are back!”

“Coming!” Dean hollered back, already walking and motioning for Spencer to come along with him. “Anyways, I, uh, I gotta ask…” He gave Spencer a partly-suspicious, partly-sad, sideways look. “Why did, uh… why did you flinch away from us?”

Spencer blinked, seeming genuinely surprised. “Did I?” He blinked again. “Oh. Sorry. I guess, uh… habit.”

“You’re an FBI agent with a habit of flinching?” Dean asked, skepticism thick in his voice. If Spencer was allowed to be a skeptic, so was he, and he didn’t like the way the answer sounded.

“Not when I have my gun. But, uh… when it’s just me…” Spencer looked down at himself and shrugged. “I mean, I’m tall, but… I’m still the skinny kid who got beat up every day of high school… and some of college… my badge and my gun help me get into an agent or hunter mentality. It’s like… I don’t know, pretending to be someone else… someone who doesn’t have my history. But, uh, without them… I’m a little quicker to run and hide, I guess…” He laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck.

Dean only allowed himself a brief moment to think of a significantly smaller, equally lanky Spencer at the hands of five or six kids that looked a little more like Dean had in high school; if he thought about it too long, he would get mad, and he had had enough anger under his skin for one night.

“Well,” Dean finally said, putting his eyes on the path in front of them rather than his feet. “Maybe learning how to fight will change that.”

Spencer had a smile in his voice when he spoke again. “I would really like that…”

Dean waved his hand over his head when he saw the porchlight, and then he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Land, ho!”

Sam’s laughter easily echoed in the acoustics-friendly valley.

“I have Spencer with me!”

There was a pause—probably a confused and slightly concerned one—and then Sam replied, “Okay!”

Dean glanced over in time to see Spencer wetting his lips, and he nudged Spencer on the arm. “Hey. Sam’s not mad at you.”

Spencer gave Dean an uncertain, queasy kind of look. “You sure about that?”

Dean smiled slightly and nodded his head. “Yeah. I might not know Sam as well as I used to think, but… I still know him.”

Spencer bit his lip and turned his head away. “I’m really, really sorry, Dean…”

Dean pursed his lips and shook his head, able to make out Sam’s frame by the fast-approaching house. “You apologized already. It’s all good.” He cleared his throat. “Besides… you weren’t totally wrong. Maybe, uh… maybe Sam and I do need to sit down and talk about some of that stuff… make sure we’re on the same page… make sure nobody’s holding onto anything.”

Spencer didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem convinced, so Dean kept going.

“I mean, like we’ve all been saying, it’s the Apocalypse. We gotta make sure we’re not tripping over ourselves, so if we’ve gotta sort crap out…” Dean heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, now’s the time to do it.”

Spencer managed a small smile, and he seemed a little less guilt-ridden, so Dean counted it as a victory.

Honestly, he would take just about anything as a victory. It was just that kind of year.

“Sam?” Spencer called out cautiously when there was only a few yards left to walk.

“Yeah?” was Sam’s response, not at all cold or angry or guarded, just like Dean knew it would be.

Dean came to a stop and nudged Spencer on the back. “Go on.”

Sam looked to Dean rather than Spencer for an explanation, and Dean gave it with one smile. That was all it took, and Sam immediately knew that Spencer and Dean had made up, that Dean wasn’t faking reconciliation for someone else’s benefit, and that Dean would explain the whole thing later.

Dean hung back, smile lingering on his lips, and watched as Spencer timidly approached and let Sam pull him into a hug. He pretended not to hear the whispered apology or Sam’s whispered reply, staring up at the stars instead, and then the moment was done.

“So,” Spencer cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, tucking the frazzled strands behind his ear. “You said Castiel and Xal are back?”

Sam nodded. “Yup. They brought a DVD that’s supposedly from Gabriel.”

Dean crinkled his brow. “A DVD?”

Sam nodded again, barely able to keep a straight face. “Casa Erotica.”

Spencer looked between them with wide eyes. “Is that—” He lowered his voice to a whisper, leaning in slightly so the broken-down cars wouldn’t be able to hear him. “Is that pornography?”

Dean threw his head back and laughed, throwing an arm around Spencer’s shoulders. Sam laughed along, less amused than Dean but still finding the look on Spencer’s face amusing.

“It is, isn’t it? Oh my gosh, you’re going to make me watch porn with you.”

Dean laughed harder.

* * *

“Why don’t you just use the rings to make the new cage?”

Everything in the room ground to a halt. Dean could still feel his mouth hanging open, his lips and tongue halfway through creating an argument against Sam jumping into the worst room Hell had to offer. Spencer and Bobby were on either side of him, caught in the middle of creating equally adamant arguments along the same lines, and Castiel finally looked away from the frozen image of his brother on the screen.

Xal shrugged his shoulders, wincing immediately afterward from the pain his movement caused, and sipped his Coke. “I mean, last time Spencer gave me an update on the research, he said you were looking at maybe making a new cage for Lucifer. But, as I’m sure the choir boy told you, you would need something a lot stronger than blood to power it.” He gestured vaguely toward the screen with one hand while the other brought the soda to his lips again. “If that ring combo can open the original Cage, it should be able to power the wards and sigils for a new one, no problem, right?”

Silence traveled through the room, everyone considering the proposition in their own minds, nobody moving or speaking for several seconds after Xal finished his suggestion.

Castiel was the first to break the silence, his voice coming out hesitantly at first but then stronger. “I… suppose… it would be… possible to use them as a power source. Of course, there is always the possibility that the rings can only be used for one, specific purpose, but it’s certainly worth looking into.”

Spencer and Sam made eye contact, and Dean could practically see the reading lists being transferred between them telepathically. They both went for their laptops in the same instant.

“Hold it!”

Everyone was forced to stop again, this time by Bobby, who drummed his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair unhappily.

“It’s almost four in the mornin’, and as far as I’m concerned, we’ve got enough of a plan for us all to get some shuteye.” Bobby let his eyes wander from face to face as he spoke, and it was clear he wouldn’t be letting anyone forego sleep just because they asked nicely. “We can talk about this… ring-and-cage-and-whatever-else business in the morning.”

Spencer lifted a finger. “Technically—”

“Don’t you finish that sentence, boy.” Bobby glared in Spencer’s direction for a moment, and then he looked at Castiel and Xal. “You, too. Maybe you don’t sleep normally, but one of you is cut off from Heaven, and the other one got used as a pin cushion. Even if you don’t sleep, sit down and rest your eyes.” He rolled his eyes. “Lucifer and Michael are gonna be awful disappointed if they finally get their vessels and find out their sleep deprived and half crazy.”

“Only half?” Dean smirked, lifting his hand to cover his mouth before a yawn could break out. Just the topic of sleep was making him tired.

“Go on, git. All of you, out of my study.” Bobby waved them all out, bumping Sam in the leg with his wheelchair, but he wasn’t nearly as irritated as he was pretending.

“Okay, okay.” Sam put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m going to bed. Geeze.”

Spencer trailed out after him, taking care to avoid being within an arm’s length of Bobby. “Going now. Straight to bed.”

“No research!” Bobby called after them.

“No research!” Spencer called back.

Dean looked at the couch and let out a sigh. “Hello, old friend.”

“Dean, there’s another guest room upstairs.” Bobby jerked his thumb in the direction Sam and Spencer had gone. “Spencer helped me convert one of the old storage rooms. I’ve had so many _strays_ sticking around lately…” He drawled out his question and let it hang, giving Dean a raised brow and eyes that held a mischievous twinkle.

Bobby wasn’t fooling anybody. He loved having them stay with him.

“You sure, Bobby? I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.” Dean actually kind of liked it. It reminded him of simpler times, and it smelled like home.

“Yeah, well,” Bobby jerked his head in the general direction of the still-seated Xal, “I was thinking Pitchfork over there should have somewhere to lay down while he’s all beat up.”

Xal held up his hands. “Oh, I’m headed out. Just need to catch my second wind, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Just lay on the freakin’ couch,” Bobby snapped. “Castiel don’t need sleep, and if he has to keep an eye on you, he won’t be fluttering off to do things while he thinks I’m not lookin’, so maybe he’ll actually _rest_ a little.” He gave Castiel a disapproving look and then turned to Dean, his expression stern. “And that way, _you_ can get some proper sleep for a change.”

Dean, Xal, and Castiel all opened their mouths to protest.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Which one of you shingled that roof up there with your own two hands?”

Dean, Xal, and Castiel all closed their mouths.

Xal got up and limped over to the couch, tumbling onto the cushions.

Castiel took the chair Xal had vacated and made himself comfortable, closing his eyes to rest them, as per Bobby’s orders.

Dean opened his mouth one last time, a token protest on his tongue, but another sharp look from Bobby had him turning around and making his way to the guest rooms.

Dean couldn’t complain, not really, even if he wasn’t a fan of being told when to sleep. They had a plan—or at least, they had an idea to investigate and potentially make a plan out of—and that was more than they had when they woke up that morning. They had done enough for one day, and Bobby was just trying to make sure they took care of themselves.

Like he always did. Like he always had and always would.

Dean couldn’t get mad at him for that.

“Dean?” Spencer poked his head out of his room, chewing on his lip. “I, uh… I really am—”

“If you apologize to me again, I’m gonna boink you in the eyes. Okay? Just like Larry used to do to Moe.” Dean held up one finger and wagged it in Spencer’s face. “Don’t.”

Spencer glanced away for a moment, and then he looked back with a little smile. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Go to bed, or I’ll tell Bobby you’re doing research.” Dean cracked a little smile, which Spencer returned, and he waited until Spencer retreated into his room again.

_We’re gonna be alright._

He didn’t really know how, especially with the odds stacked so heavily against them, but they were.

“Bobby! Sam’s doing research!”

“No, I’m not! Spencer’s lying!”

“Boys!”

 _Yeah._ Dean smiled. _We're_ _gonna be alright._

* * *

_"Don't you recall what you felt,_   
_When you weren't alone?_   
_Someone who stood by your side;_   
_A face you have known._   
_Where do you run when it's too much to bear?_   
_Who do you turn to in need,_   
_When nobody's there?_

_..._

_No hesitation, and no holding back._   
_Let it all go, and you'll know,_   
_You're on the right track."_

_\- Hold On, Kansas_

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was a nightmare for me, because I'm a little obsessive about conflict resolution, but Dean Winchester... is not... so resolution happens... in bits and pieces... and so much is left unsaid... and... it... is... _painful._
> 
> Also, the end was written in at the last minute, and I'm not sure how I feel about it, but... all in all, I like how this turned out.


End file.
